The sun, the gorgeous sur, is thine,
The pomp that brings and shuts the day, The clouds that round him change and shine, The airs that fan his way.
Thence look the thoughtful stars, and there The meek moon walks the silent air.
The sunny Italy may boast
The beauteous tints that flush her skies, And lovely, round the Grecian coast,
May thy blue pillars rise :
I only know how fair they stand About my own beloved land.
And they are fair: a charm is theirs,
That earth-the proud, green earth-has not, With all the hues, and forms, and airs, That haunt her sweetest spot.
We gaze upon thy calm, pure sphere, And read of heaven's eternal year.
Oh! when, amid the throng of men, The heart grows sick of hollow mirth, How willingly we turn us, then, Away from this cold earth,
And look into thy azure breast,
For seats of innocence and rest!
From "The Minstrel Girl."—JAMES G. WHITTIER.
HER lover died. Away from her, The ocean-girls his requiem sang, And smoothed his dreamless sepulchre Where the tall coral branches sprang. And it was told her how he strove
With death; but not from selfish fear: It was the memory of her love
Which made existence doubly dear. They told her how his fevered sleep Revealed the phantom of his brain- He thought his love had come to keep Her vigils at his couch of pain;
And he would speak in his soft tone, And stretch his arms to clasp the air, And then awaken with a moan,
And weep that there was nothing there! And when he bowed himself at last Beneath the spoiler's cold eclipse, Even as the weary spirit passed,
Her name was on his marble lips. She heard the tale; she did not weep; It was too strangely sad for tears; And so she kept it for the deep
Rememberings of after years.
She poured one lone and plaintive wail For the loved dead-it was her last- Like harp-tones dying, cn the gale Her minstrelsy of spirit passed: And she became an altered one, Forgetful of her olden shrine, As if her darkened soul had done
With all beneath the fair sunshine.
"Weep for Yourselves, and for your Children.”— MRS. SIGOURNEY.
WE mourn for those who toil,
The slave who ploughs the main,* Or him who hopeless tills the soil Beneath the stripe and chain;
For those who in the world's hard race O'erwearied and unblest,
A host of restless phantoms chase,→→ Why mourn for those who rest?
We mourn for those who sin,
Bound in the tempter's snare,
Whom syren pleasure beckons in To prisons of despair,
Whose hearts, by whirlwind passions torn,
Are wrecked on folly's shore,
But why in sorrow should we mourn For those who sin no more?
We mourn for those who weep, Whom stern afflictions bend
With anguish o'er the lowly sleep
Of lover or of friend ;
But they to whom the sway
Of pain and grief is o'er,
Whose tears our God hath wiped away, Oh, mourn for them no more!
The sudden Coming on of Spring after long Rains.CARLOS WILCOX.
THE spring, made dreary by incessant rain, Was well nigh gone, and not a glimpse appeared Of vernal loveliness, but light-green turf Round the deep bubbling fountain in the vale, Or by the rivulet on the hill-side, near
Its cultivated base, fronting the south,
Where, in the first warm rays of March, it sprung Amid dissolving snow :-save these mere specks Of earliest verdure, with a few pale flowers, In other years bright blowing soon as earth Unveils her face, and a faint vermil tinge On clumps of maple of the softer kind, Was nothing visible to give to May,
Though far advanced, an aspect more like her's Than like November's universal gloom. All day, beneath the sheltering hovel, stood The drooping herd, or lingered near to ask The food of winter. A few lonely birds, Of those that in this northern clime remain Throughout the year, and in the dawn of spring, At pleasant noon, from their unknown retreat, Come suddenly to view with lively notes, Or those that soonest to this clime return
From warmer regions, in thick groves were seen, But with their feathers ruffled, and despoiled Of all their glossy lustre, sitting mute,
Or only skipping, with a single chirp,
In quest of food. Whene'er the heavy clouds, That half way down the mountain side oft hung, As if o'erloaded with their watery store, Were parted, though with motion unobserved, Through their dark opening, white with snow appeared Its lowest, e'en its cultivated, peaks.
With sinking heart the husbandman surveyed The melancholy scene, and much his fears On famine dwelt; when, suddenly awaked At the first glimpse of daylight, by the sound, Long time unheard, of cheerful martins, near His window, round their dwelling chirping quick, With spirits by hope enlivened, up he sprung To look abroad, and to his joy beheld
A sky without the remnant of a cloud. From gloom to gayety and beauty bright So rapid now the universal change,
The rude survey it with delight refined,
And e'en the thoughtless talk of thanks devout.
Long swoln in drenching rain, seeds, germs, and buds,
Start at the touch of vivifying beams.
Moved by their secret force, the vital lymph Diffusive runs, and spreads o'er wood and field A flood of verdure. Clothed, in one short week, Is naked nature in her full attire.
On the first morn, light as an open plain
Is all the woodland, filled with sunbeams, poured Through the bare tops, on yellow leaves below, With strong reflection: on the last, 'tis dark With full-grown foliage, shading all within. In one short week, the orchard buds and blooms; And now, when steeped in dew or gentle showers, It yields the purest sweetness to the breeze, Or all the tranquil atmosphere perfumes. E'en from the juicy leaves, of sudden growth, And the rank grass of steaming ground, the air, Filled with a watery glimmering, receives A grateful smell, exhaled by warming rays. Each day are heard, and almost every hour, New notes to swell the music of the groves. And soon the latest of the feathered train At evening twilight come;-the lonely snipe, O'er marshy fields, high in the dusky air, Invisible, but, with faint, tremulous tones, Hovering or playing o'er the listener's head ;- And, in mid-air, the sportive night-hawk, seen lying awhile at random, uttering oft A cheerful cry, attended with a shake Of level pinions, dark, but, when upturned, Against the brightness of the western sky, One white plume showing in the midst of each,
Then far down diving with loud hollow sound ;- And, deep at first within the distant wood, The whip-poor-will, her name her only song. She, soon as children from the noisy sport Of hooping, laughing, talking with all tones, To hear the echoes of the empty barn, Are by her voice diverted, and held mute, Comes to the margin of the nearest grove; And when the twilight, deepened into night, Calls them within, close to the house she comes, And on its dark side, haply on the step Of unfrequented door, lighting unseen, Breaks into strains articulate and clear, The closing sometimes quickened as in sport. Now, animate throughout, from morn to eve All harmony, activity, and joy,
Is lovely Nature, as in her blest prime. The robin to the garden, or green yard, Close to the door repairs to build again Within her wonted tree; and at her work Seems doubly busy, for her past delay. Along the surface of the winding stream, Pursuing every turn, gay swallows skim; Or round the borders of the spacious lawn Fly in repeated circles, rising o'er Hillock and fence, with motion serpentine, Easy and light. One snatches from the ground A downy feather, and then upward springs, Followed by others, but oft drops it soon, In playful mood, or from too slight a hold, When all at once dart at the falling prize. The flippant blackbird, with light yellow crown, Hangs fluttering in the air, and chatters thick Till her breath fail, when, breaking off, she drops On the next tree, and on its highest limb, Or some tall flag, and, gently rocking, sits, Her strain repeating.
ALL are born free, and all with equal rights.
So speaks the charter of a nation proud
Of her unequalled liberties and laws,
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